Professor Bell wrote my recommendation immediately. My writing professor wrote another after reading my statement and crying quietly in her office. Denise insisted on writing a support letter even though it was not required.
“You show up half-dead and still remember everyone’s order,” she said. “They should know that.”
The application went out on a Wednesday afternoon in March.
Then came the waiting.
I checked my email constantly. Life continued around the fear: shifts, lectures, bathrooms, midterms, cheap groceries. Spring arrived slowly in wet grass and pale blossoms.
The email came while I was unlocking Sunrise Bean at 5:08 a.m.
Subject: Hawthorne Fellowship Application Update.
My thumb shook.
Congratulations. You have advanced to the finalist round.
Fifty finalists.
Out of hundreds.
I leaned against the counter and laughed once. Denise found me there and thought something terrible had happened.
“I’m a finalist,” I said.
She screamed so loudly the first customer knocked on the glass.
